Page 32 of One in a Million

The stench of animal waste and spoiling meat rose from the pens in the carnivore compound. There were mostly cats here, Charlie’s stock in trade. They were easy to buy and always in demand. He had three more tigers, although none of them were as big as the one the woman had just shot. There were lions, too. Hunters would pay more for a maned male. A lioness was cheaper but still thrilling to hunt. Leopards and cheetahs were more expensive because they were harder to find. A separate compound held the goats, chickens, and rabbits he raised to feed the meat eaters. And he wasn’t above hauling home an occasional roadkill if it was fresh enough.

The really big animals—rhino, elephant, hippo, and Cape buffalo—couldn’t be contained here. But Charlie was negotiating for an elephant, used for rides in a roadside zoo. Somebody would pay good money to shoot one, even an Indian elephant.

As Charlie passed one heavily fortified pen, the animal inside lunged at him, crashing against the heavy wooden posts, snarling and slavering. It was a hyena—hulking, vicious, and as ugly as sin. Who in their right mind would want such a hideous trophy?

Charlie’s employees were afraid of it. He’d considered killing the hyena himself, just to get rid of the troublesome beast. But there were people out there, maybe fantasy geeks, who would get into hunting and killing a real live monster. He just needed to get their attention. Maybe tomorrow he would post online notices on a few of their sites and see who might take the bait.

After locking the compound gates, he mounted the veranda of the frame building that served as his business headquarters and his home. Pouring himself a generous three fingers of whiskey, he stood at the rail, sipping as he gazed across the rolling open land toward the distant lights of the Culhane place.

Earlier today he’d had a visit from that FBI fellow, Rafferty. Not that he’d had much to tell the man. He and Frank had shared no love, he’d said, and he wasn’t sorry the arrogant bastard was dead. But Charlie had sworn that he hadn’t killed Frank. He was too busy making money.

Rafferty had looked down at Charlie as if he were something he’d found stuck to his shoe, thanked him for his time, and left. With luck, he wouldn’t be back. He’d clearly been repelled by everything he saw.

Charlie finished the whiskey in a single gulp, feeling the mellow burn all the way down his throat. He was putting more money into investments every week. But he wouldn’t be in this bloody business forever. It was only his path to a bigger dream.

Like a street kid gazing into a store window, Charlie fixed his gaze on the distant lights. He wanted what the Culhanes had—not their vast wealth, which he would never have, but a fine home, tailored clothes, enviable cars, influential friends, and respect. Most of all, respect.

He wanted respect even more than he wantedher.

What was she doing now? Was she sleeping, her glorious hair spread on the pillow? Was she with that FBI bastard, Rafferty? He could tell that she liked him, but he would be gone soon.

Was she thinking about their encounter on the road when she’d shot the gazelle? He’d been furious at the time, but her spunk and courage had impressed him deeply. And the sight of that fine blood spray on her bare legs had almost driven him mad with lust.

He had wanted Jasmine Culhane since her high school days, when she’d sat in the front row of his algebra class, her skirt hiked up a little to show him those arousal-triggering legs. She’d done it on purpose, the little flirt. But when he’d tried to get friendly outside of class, she’d barely given him the time of day.

Charlie’s visitors and workers had given him secondhand reports on the Culhanes and their situation. He was aware that now Jasmine would be vulnerable—her father gone, the rest of her family grappling for control. She was figuratively alone, with no one to support her. Now would be the time to let her know that she had his sympathy, and maybe more. The gesture would at least crack open the closed door between them. Maybe it would even rev up the simmering attraction he’d always felt from her.

He wouldn’t be welcome at Frank’s memorial. But there would be a mob of people there. He’d been a teacher. He knew how to socialize. He could blend in and try to get to her.

If ever there had been a chance to make her his, it was coming.

CHAPTERNINE

The next afternoon, Frank Culhane’s mortal remains were laid to rest next to his parents in the hilltop graveyard that Elias Culhane had chosen, leveled on top, and fenced for his progeny. Elias had clearly expected to have a tribe of descendants, like biblical Abraham. There was abundant space for more graves, most of it empty.

Wearing a veiled hat and the black dress suit she’d bought years ago when her mother-in-law passed away, Lila stood beside the open grave. The hot sun beat down on her like a hammer. Dust swirled around her, covering the low-heeled black pumps she’d worn for the walk up the steep, winding trail.

The casket had arrived earlier than expected, in a mortuary van with a single driver. The funeral directors had probably expected her to wait for them tomorrow, but Lila had made the decision to bury him that afternoon. Frank had never stood on ceremony. He’d always said he didn’t want to be left lying around for people to gawk at. And he hadn’t wanted his casket sealed in a concrete vault. But she was already wondering if she’d been too hasty. There would be criticism from his friends, his children, and from Madeleine, who had yet to arrive at the ranch.

Was that why she’d been in such a hurry to bury Frank? To get it done before Madeleine could barge in, call a halt, and take over? Or had she just wanted to get a painful step out of the way and move on to the memorial—bury the body, preserve the memory?

The van driver had brought the floral arrangement—red roses—for the casket. At least there would be pretty color on the grave. The compact-size backhoe, used to bury horses, had been called into service for the digging. Darrin and Roper had put aside their feud to act as pallbearers. Even Sam Rafferty had been called to help at the last minute. The other men needed to carry the casket up the hill had been recruited from among the stable hands.

Now the stable hands had been dismissed. Roper and Sam had stepped outside the wrought-iron fence to observe from a respectful distance. Mariah had been invited but had chosen to stay in the kitchen and prepare a late luncheon of sandwiches and salad.

The Culhane family stood at the graveside—Lila in the middle, Jasmine on her left, Darrin, with Simone clasping his arm, on her right. Both of them had argued against Frank’s prompt burial but the legal choice had been Lila’s.

She could almost feel the hostility radiating from both sides. For someone flanked by family members, she felt very much alone.

Frank hadn’t been a religious man. There was no minister or clergyman present. Lila and his children had agreed that each of them would say a few words of farewell. At least they’d agreed on something.

Darrin spoke first, his voice charged with emotion that might or might not be real. Lila had seen no sign of grief in him, only the drive to claim what had been his father’s. But then, everyone grieved in their own way.

“Goodbye, Dad,” he said. “You were always bigger than life to me. All I ever wanted was to live up to your expectations. Now that you’re gone, it will be up to me to carry on your legacy as head of the Culhane family. I promise to see your murderer brought to justice. I promise to see this ranch restored to our family, with everything as it should be. I promise . . .” He trailed off. “Rest in peace, Dad. We’ve got this.”

Lila exhaled the breath she’d been holding. She’d hoped that hostilities could be put aside until after the memorial, but the proverbial line in the sand had been drawn. War had been declared, and the first shot had been fired right over Frank’s casket.

Jasmine was wrapped in an immense black cashmere shawl that covered whatever she was wearing underneath. It hid her like a burqa. That was clearly what she wanted, to hide. Lila understood. But the shawl had to be stifling in this infernal heat.

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